


Tangible

by yunitsa



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-29
Updated: 2012-08-29
Packaged: 2017-11-13 03:57:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/499203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yunitsa/pseuds/yunitsa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It is, John thinks, the first time that Finch has ever willingly touched him.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tangible

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Осязание](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1064295) by [Isei](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isei/pseuds/Isei)



> Just dipping my toes in the water...

"Mr. Reese? Mr. Reese!" Finch's voice is shrill and close, not coming through his earpiece. Reese opens his eyes.

"I'm fine, Harold. Where are..."

"Gone," Finch admits. "But the police have their license plate and an excellent description. What's today's date?"

John tells him. Finch's fingertips are at his temples, as though Finch is trying to read his mind. He looks into John's eyes. "You don't appear to have a concussion."

"I've got a hard head," Reese rasps out, pushing himself upright. Finch sits back, hands on his knees, perfectly buttoned up under the bare light of the abandoned warehouse. It is, John thinks, the first time that Finch has ever willingly touched him. 

*

He leans down to look at the computer screen as Finch fills him in on a number's background. Tracking the opening and closing windows, he puts a hand on Finch's shoulder – no weight behind it, just resting. Finch keeps typing with his right hand, but after a moment, his left reaches up and covers John's, warm and dry. Neither of them says anything, though Reese has stopped breathing. Then he detaches and goes out to do what has to be done.

*

He finds Finch in the library, late, the darkness relieved by a single desk lamp and the glare of the screens. Finch is in shirtsleeves, glasses off, pressing his fingers into his eyes. His hair is slightly ruffled, his face pale in the bluish light.

"I don't have a new number for you, Mr. Reese," he says. "It's...oh. Three thirty-six a.m."

"I know," Reese says, coming over to lean against the desk. Finch stands up, suddenly needing to get a new pen; Reese pivots and boxes him in. He doesn't mean it to be threatening, but Finch’s eyes are wide and frightened, naked without the lenses over them. Finch is brittle, he knows, in a way that goes far beyond the physical – if pushed too hard he'll break. "How are you, Harold?" he asks. "Not sleeping?"

"I've found the best thing for insomnia," Harold tells him, "is to accept that sleep isn't going to come and do something productive instead."

"Is that the best thing for loneliness, too?"

Finch doesn't answer, but he goes a different kind of still, not tensed for flight. John bends down, slowly, and presses his mouth to Harold's, light but not tentative. It feels about as he'd expected, closed lips beneath his, as Harold breathes in sharply through his nose. It feels like a connection. 

He kisses Harold's cheek and the spot under his ear, strokes over the line of his shoulders, waiting. There is no urgency – urgency would never have survived the slow-burning thing between them, like a fuse wreathed in smoke – though he does want to take Harold to bed and touch him everywhere, be touched in turn. But then Harold's mouth opens under his and Harold's hands slip under his jacket, grounding him, and that's enough, it's what he's needed.


End file.
